Lit Match
by Numisma
Summary: [Fuji x Ryoma] He can't read Fuji, not yet, but he still tries. Post Nationals, spoilers for chapter 321. Gift!fic for Missa.


Disclaimer: I don't own Prince of Tennis

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After Nationals are over, Ryoma waits until the other regulars and club members have left before he corners him in the clubroom.

"Fuji-senpai," Ryoma says, racket in hand.

When Fuji's "Yes, Echizen?" urges, gently prods him, to continue, Ryoma can feel a sort of laid-back expectancy in his words.

"Play a match with me?"

Fuji lays his racket on his shoulder. "Right now?"

"Today, yeah," Ryoma says, unable to put into words why he hasn't asked till now, only that he's all the more pumped for it. Fuji looks amused, if nothing else. Gaze firmly on Fuji, Ryoma hooks his fingers onto the strings of his racket, tensing and releasing them, choosing his next words carefully. He knows they must be said just right or everything will be ruined.

After Fuji's loss to Shiraishi in singles, the topic of losing has been universally recognised as potentially harsh. Ryoma probably knows this better than anyone else. Even as he speaks now, his mind sends him back to that day. When the walls fall away there's just a blinding void with a disembodied tennis court, Ryoma on the sidelines and Fuji crumpled upon the court, panting, holding himself up just barely.

"If you play me seriously from the start, you won't regret it when you lose."

Ryoma tenses, watching the faint trace of emotions playing on Fuji's face right now, remembering the echo of his own words to Fuji back then. Words that were tinder to the oil in Fuji's veins, finally set ablaze. Words Ryoma could say because a new opportunity to prove himself the pillar of Seigaku fell into his lap.

Ryoma's imagining Fuji's first Hakuryuu flying unexpectedly into his hand, fingers closing around the ball. Stroke of luck or a secret message - thanks? - it doesn't matter. Fuji's fire was stoked and he still lost.

Fuji's looking at him, adjusting the grip on his racket (tight), then suddenly Fuji's racket is hooked behind Ryoma's shoulder, tugging him forward. There isn't much force involved but Ryoma still takes a stumbled half-step from the surprise. He can't read Fuji, not yet, but he still tries. Is Fuji mad, is he insulted, is he--

"You sound so certain you'll win, Echizen," Fuji says playfully, head tilted to the side. They're standing very close, and for some reason Ryoma can hear his heart pounding. Fuji's racket is still digging lightly into his shoulder.

...Ryoma thinks he likes it there.

Ryoma smirks, inhibitions set aside. "Of course I will. I'm going to break all your counters too."

Fuji gives a rare open-eyed laugh then. "Oh, are you now? I look forward to it... if you can." He tugs Ryoma closer with the racket. Releasing the claw-grip on his racket strings, Ryoma takes another half-step closer and tugs his cap down to get away from that gaze. He's feeling kind of glad he waited so long.

"Oh, I can."

"Fresh game, or shall we resume where we left off last time?" Fuji asks, smiling.

"...I can't have both?" Ryoma pouts. "Che."

Another laugh, softer this time, follows that display, then Fuji states, "I never said that."

"Heh, did I ever say you did?" Ryoma retorts right back, glancing around the empty clubroom for a moment. Now that Nationals are over, the third-years... huh.

"Ah, of course not." Fuji smirks. He seems to have noticed his waver in attention, because he goes on to say, "What are you looking around for?"

"Nothing," Ryoma covers up, and turns to his tennis bag on the bench nearby, Fuji's racket slipping off him easily. Neither of them seems to mind or care. "Hey," Ryoma says over his shoulder, putting his racket away. Fuji is quiet, attending to his own things. Ryoma goes on to mention the court at home. There isn't much description; he just says it's there. Ryoma doesn't have to say anything else for Fuji to understand the invitation. Fuji smiles, agrees, and they finish up.

They leave the clubroom together. It's a quiet walk home. No words are needed. The sparks have already been lit beneath their feet.


End file.
